


Love and Self-Loathing

by PunishedPyotr



Series: &S-L [2]
Category: Brat'ya Karamazovy | Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot - Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Бесы | Demons - Fyodor Dostoevsky
Genre: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Molestation, Multi, Obsession, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Seizures, implied/referenced slow burn, reupload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 07:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13336500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunishedPyotr/pseuds/PunishedPyotr
Summary: Alyosha is a bastard.





	Love and Self-Loathing

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna be honest i only skimmed this and the other one to figure what i should tag this lol. i forgot to save the tags :(  
> aireyv's original author's note!
> 
> _I'm not sure how old this is. I think I wrote it around the time I was graduating high school, though, because I remember writing it on my phone during school.  
>  This is unedited from the original._

Assassinations don’t go very well when the man holding the gun has a last-minute moral crisis and turns his gun instead on the man holding the strings.

Fleeing the country doesn’t go very well when one only has enough money on him to take him to Switzerland, and kind-hearted drivers only appear often enough to hide him away in some no-name town in the middle of nowhere.

The town in question hosted a sanitarium, which was fortunate for Alyosha because they were willing to let him work for room and board - cleaning, and sometimes helping to prepare food, and mostly keeping the sole Russian-speaking patient company. The patient was, evidently, a prince of some sort, an epileptic, and it was theorized that being able to speak to someone in his native language might aid his situation somehow. He’d been released once before, although Alyosha was told that it hadn’t ended well. After everything that had happened with Pyotr, he thought it would be better not to ask for details.

Still, that was how Myshkin came to be involved in Alyosha’s life, and it seemed to do him well. Some days he was actually up to talking, instead of staring blankly out the window. It didn’t take very long for the two to become very close - probably because of how lonely Myshkin was, Alyosha suspected, since his friends/relations had stopped visiting some time ago and he never was able to read their letters, although they wrote often; Alyosha was relieved to be away from Pyotr, mostly, and liked the feeling of being needed anyhow. It was less than honest, but his affection was getting more genuine all the time.

Often Myshkin would ask about Alyosha’s past. Alyosha would only ever give vague answers about his life before his father’s murder, afraid of someone figuring out his relationship to the faraway news of an assassination attempt in Russia, or worse, of frightening Myshkin and causing him to withdraw into himself again.

Often Alyosha was tempted to ask Myshkin about his past. He did, once, and recieved a mumbled answer about not really being able to remember very much. Alyosha wasn’t surprised. He already knew that Myshkin was very forgetful in what passed for his daily life, frequently gripped by night terrors, and when he spaced out sometimes wore a look of compulsive reminiscience; Alyosha recognized these symptoms from Pyotr, and although he had no real name for the concept, he knew the implications it carried.

Still, Alyosha didn’t pity Myshkin like he had Pyotr; Pyotr was extremely pathetic and in spite of that (or rather because of that) somehow sensual while Myshkin was… too good for this world, too pure. Alyosha couldn’t think of Myshkin in that way - the thought had crossed his mind, but he was revulsed with himself. He couldn’t do that to such an innocent creature; he was no Stavrogin.

The better part of a year passed with this kind of one-sided tension. In short, Alyosha tried not to get involved.

It all started to fall apart innocently enough. It was rather late one night, but Alyosha hardly noticed the time; he was glad when Myshkin had a day where he would talk at all, so he tried to spend as much time as possible with him on those days, even at the sacrifice of sleep. (Besides, this sort of schedule much less sleepless than the one he had had when he had lived with Pyotr.)

But perhaps because it was very late at night, and very quiet - quiet enough that it seemed as though the two of them were the only people awake in the whole town - Myshkin asked out of nowhere, quite innocently, “Alyosha, is it strange if a man is in love with another man?”

If Alyosha had been holding something at that point, he would have dropped it. “Wh… why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious.”

Alyosha swallowed hard. “It is a little strange,” he said.

“Oh.” Myshkin sounded almost… disappointed.

“It’s not impossible,” Alyosha added, wishing that he weren’t one of those people who blushed so often, “and anyway it’s… well, Lyev Nikolaevitch, you know that a man being in love with a woman can also be quite strange, so…”

“Oh, I know that,” Myshkin said, then looked out the window, not that there was anything to see. “It wouldn’t be considered strange, then, if, as an example, I was in love with you?”

Alyosha stared at him for a long time. “…why that as an example, of all things?”

Myshkin shrugged. Alyosha could see an endearing little smile reflected in the window. Alyosha could suddenly see himself having a relationship with Myshkin, something not at all like the one he had had with Pyotr or even the one he had shared with Lise - something substantial, something that lasted. He felt icy dread pool in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want anything that lasted here; he was a wanted man, he needed to be on the move again, and soon. He couldn’t hide here forever!

“Alyosha, is there something wrong?”

“No,” Alyosha said a little too quickly, “but as I said, Lyev Nikolaevitch, why choose you and I as an example?”

Myshkin turned back around, pausing to consider Alyosha. “What’s the matter with my example?”

“Well, you and I couldn’t possibly-” Alyosha started, “I mean, you’re a patient here and I, I work here, sort of- and you’re so…” What I am I even saying? Alyosha thought, trailing off nervously.

“Your face is red,” Myshkin observed. Alyosha quickly covered it with his hands.

“Lyev Nikolaevitch, what are you trying to say?”

“Um…”

There was a pregnant pause. Sighing, Alyosha sat on the bed next to the suddenly-shy Myshkin, leaned over, and kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, friendly, brotherly even, but it lingered half a moment too long and when Alyosha pulled back and looked at Myshkin’s wide-eyed, mildly stunned but not taken aback expression, he felt an unsurpressable longing for more. “…well, Lyev Nikolaevitch?”

Myshkin slowly nodded. Alyosha took this as an invitation to kiss him again; this time, Myshkin’s lips parted slightly, and Alyosha took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. He wasn’t really thinking of anything, except inexpilcably of how far he could go, where else he could kiss; one hand absentmindedly slipped down Myshkin’s side. He stopped cold when he heard a half-stifled whine deep in Myshkin’s throat: without thinking, Alyosha had squeezed his fingers, digging his nails into Myshkin’s hip. Alyosha broke the kiss and drew back as quickly as he could, standing up and backing across the room, apologising and almost tripping over his own feet as he did so.

“I’m - I’m not hurt,” Myshkin said, blinking. “Don’t worry, Alyosha.”

“That’s not entirely the problem,” Alyosha said, wiping his mouth with the back of a trembling hand, “I can’t do this to you, Lyev Nikolaevitch. I can’t… not like this.”

“Like what? You can’t do what?”

“The fact that you have to ask…” Alyosha sighed, then turned to the door. “I’m going to bed. Good night, Lyev Nikolaevitch.”

“Wait,” Myshkin called after him, sliding off the bed, “I’m confused, are we-?”

Alyosha took a breath and held it for a moment before turning around and swiftly taking Myshkin’s face in his hands and kissing him gently again. “Yes,” he said quietly, “yes, we are.” He left.

Nothing else really changed; there was only the extra tenderness and the occasional kiss or embrace or Myshkin falling asleep with his head on Alyosha’s shoulder or lap, and the creeping sense of guilty self-loathing where Alyosha was concerned. But he had been living with that since he lost his virginity and heard of Stavrogin and wondered if they were anything alike.

Then Pyotr Verkhovensky returned from the dead.

It was a coincidence, really. Alyosha was out in town, at the market, when he spotted someone who looked like Pyotr from behind. He dismissed it, at first, although the time had already passed when his guilty conscience would conjure Pyotr in every shadow, but when the mystery man turned enough so that Alyosha could see even the curve of his cheek, Alyosha’s blood ran cold. He had traced fingers, lips across that jaw too many times for him not to know it now. Telling himself that it was impossible, that he was just hallucinating or overreacting or something, Alyosha ducked between buildings, deciding to skip the market and take a backroad back to the sanitarium. Looking behind him, he noticed that the Pyotr lookalike had vanished. He sighed shakily in relief and turned around again just in time to slam into something tall and dark and bony.

On the floor of the narrow alley, Alyosha apologized hurriedly to someone’s back. He shut up so fast that he could feel his teeth clamp together when the someone turned around.

“Stop that,” he said, “I know you know Russian.”

“V-Verkhovensky!”

“Yes?”

“What are you- what- why-?!” Alyosha stammered, still lying on the dirty ground.

“Surprised to see me here?” Pyotr said casually.

“Surprised to see you alive!” Alyosha cried, “I thought-”

“You thought you killed me.” Pyotr smiled slighty. “That’s understandable. You did shoot me, after all, and left me for dead.” Alyosha’s mouth felt very dry. “Next time, Karamazov,” Pyotr said, pressing one hand to his left shoulder - Alyosha noticed that his fingers and wrist were even thinner now than when he had last seen him - “shoot to kill, not wound.”

“I didn’t…” Alyosha breathed, “not so loud, please, don’t say my name so loudly…”

“What, afraid someone will recognize it, Karamazov?” Pyotr said loudly, before Alyosha jumped up and clapped a hand over his mouth.

“How did you find me?” Alyosha whispered hurriedly. “Why are you here?” Pyotr glared at him for almost a full minute before Alyosha cautiously lowered his hand.

“Like I’m going to tell you,” Pyotr said in a low voice.

“This has to be a… a coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” Pyotr scoffed. “If that’s what you want to think. Certainly coincidence could bring me out here, in the middle of nowhere, where you have no real reason to be. A sane man would be in America by now, like your brother.”

Alyosha didn’t bother with that last bit. “But… how?” He paused, biting his lip. “And what do you plan to do now that you’ve found me…?”

Pyotr considered him for a few moments, a small, haughty smile (that didn’t distract from the dark half-circles under his eyes) on his face. Alyosha swallowed hard. This was not going to end well.

* * *

They ended up at wherever Pyotr was staying - apparently he’d been in town at least one night - furthermore, they ended up on the bed, with Alyosha wondering how and why this was happening and what the hell was he thinking? What the hell was he doing? It was so easy to fall back into the routine they had had the previous year: the routine of hurriedly peeling off clothing and grabbing whatever flesh there was to grab and proceeding to stroke it, scratch it, lick it, suck it, bite it. Alyosha wondered if Pyotr had tracked him all the way to this godforsaken town just to get laid; he used to wonder if Pyotr cared for him at all…

And the sex would be a respite before the mindgames begun, Alyosha knew. The frenzied calm before the storm.

In all the time he had spent with Pyotr, Alyosha had gradually learned to be rough, even savage, with him. It had always deeply disturbed him how easy it was to step into Stavrogin’s other role, although he never hurt Pyotr too badly, much to the latter’s loud dissatisfaction. Because Alyosha couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do even half the things Stavrogin had done; when he drew blood, he could swear he could hear the stained sheets crying up unto the Lord for vengence.

Alyosha stopped cold when he pulled Pyotr’s shirt back and saw his shouder. It took the distracted Pyotr a moment to notice Alyosha’s staring, but when he did he gave him a sardonic grin.

“That… that was me?” Alyosha breathed, reaching trembling fingers towards the new scar, the round, red little indentation on Pyotr’s shoulder.

“I hope you’re happy, Karamazov,” Pyotr said, “you finally left a mark of your own.”

“That wasn’t what I wanted-”

“Are you sure? You always seemed so obsessed with what Nikolay Vsevolodovitch left me.” He leaned into Alyosha until their faces were close enough to kiss in earnest, although Alyosha stayed put. “Congratulations on being the first person besides him to scar me.”

“No,” Alyosha moaned, putting his hands up to his face in dismay. “I didn’t set out to- Pyotr Stepanovitch, you forced my hand back then.”

“I didn’t force your finger,” Pyotr said, “although I always knew you were capable of it.”

“Capable-?” Alyosha gasped before he was cut off by Pyotr roughly grabbing his jaw.

“Show me what else you’re capable of,” he hissed, “I need it. I’ve been alone for far too long…”

Alyosha felt helpless but to put his hands back on Pyotr, running his fingers lightly across his ribs. He felt Stavrogin’s scars - the only thing he had left Pyotr when he died - and he also felt how his earlier observations about Pyotr being thinner now were absolutely correct, but his eyes were fixed on the bullet’s mark. He could remember clearly that isolated room with its window, the clear view of the Tsar - at that moment - the somber weight of the gun in his hands - and the cold, nauseous dread that clutched at his heart, the surety that he could not kill someone. He thought he could have then. If it was for the best, he could have.

“Damn it, Alexey Fyodorovitch, pay attention,” Pyotr said, giving Alyosha’s hair a good tug.

“You’ve gotten more agressive since I last saw you,” Alyosha said.

“You can guess why.” Alyosha finally tore his eyes away, shifting his gaze instead to the peeling wall. He wondered if it was still murder, still a mortal sin, to kill one who wanted to die. What he did that day was intended to be an act of mercy, wasn’t it? First for all Russia, then for Pyotr. Just Pyotr, who by now was hungrily jerking Alyosha’s pants off. Alyosha sighed heavily and reciprocated the gesture.

“How long had it been since you last thought about me?” Pyotr asked abruptly, staring intently at Alyosha’s erection.

“…not even an hour,” Alyosha breathed.

He still didn’t know if that was a good answer or not when Pyotr put his mouth over his dick. Without prompting, per habit, Alyosha slicked three of his own fingers with saliva and leaned over to shove them into Pyotr’s hole (he groaned around his cock when he did this). It was so easy to go back to this. So easy to act like they had never stopped and nothing had ever changed, and Alyosha was still floating in the haze of ambiguous morality.

By the time Pyotr pulled off of Alyosha, he had slipped into that half-dreamlike state where Alyosha and Stavrogin seemed to run together like dye left in the rain. When and where he was didn’t seem to matter so much - who he was with didn’t seem to matter so much. What mattered was that he was thinking of Stavrogin, always thinking of Stavrogin, and also the burning intrusion of fingers and the other hand that traced his spine with its nails, making it curve involuntarily in desperation and misery and tingling pleasure. “Nikolay Vsevolodovitch,” he gasped unthinkingly when the fingers withdrew and his whole body was repositioned. The wet kisses pressed to his neck and shoulders didn’t feel like Nikolay Vsevolodovitch, that much was true, but the fingers digging into his hips now, sure to leave bruises, felt enough like him for it to work.

“I don’t suppose you ever would get over him,” Alyosha sighed, pushing into Pyotr. As much as he hated to admit it, he had missed this feeling.

“Shut up,” Pyotr panted. Alyosha was a little surprised at the lucidity Pyotr was displaying at this juncture; usually, something up his ass would swifty reduce Pyotr to a begging, sobbing mess of “Nikolay Vsevolodovitch, please, I love you,” et cetera, assuming he wasn’t in such a state already.

Which he was when Alyosha started thrusting. But Alyosha was used to this, and anyway the bullet scar loomed too large in Alyosha’s vision for him to feel offended at this. And anyway it would be hypocritical; how many times, in the months before their… parting, did Alyosha also think about Stavrogin while he fucked Pyotr?

But he had to. He had to, in order to act like him, which he did even now almost without considering it; he choked Pyotr until tears streamed from his eyes. Alyosha vaguely thought that they wet his cheeks, too. And some small - _small?_ \- part of him whispered to not stop after Pyotr blacked out, like he always did. _Keep squeezing_ , it said, as Pyotr’s eyes focused and unfocused and his lips moved silently, gaping, and the bottom one was torn, _finish what you started in that isolated room in St. Petersburg_.

Alyosha released Pyotr’s neck with a shudder that he can’t have possibly noticed, as he was shaking harshly himself, making it a little difficult for Alyosha to grab hold of his wrists and pin him against the bed. Just how _he_ liked it.

It didn’t take them long to be done with it after that. As always (except for their first time), Pyotr finished first, but his legs were always wrapped too tightly around Alyosha’s waist for him to pull out. He knew it must hurt terribly, being humiliated like this after orgasm, but Pyotr had always insisted on this position, or at least on ending in this position. “Damned delusional masochist,” slipped out of Alyosha’s lips right into Pyotr’s ear right at the moment of his orgasm. Somehow, Alyosha didn’t feel bad about that, even if before he had never liked insulting Pyotr. Or anyone, really. He used to never be able to do it sincerely, but…

_And I thought I was bad_ before, Alyosha thought, pulling out as soon as Pyotr relaxed enough for him to do so. He quickly turned his back to Pyotr, the revulsion he should have been feeling earlier now coming over him in waves. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Pyotr: he was sure he’d either cry or scream if he did. But at the same time, he didn’t get up.

A few moments passed this way, with Pyotr lying exhausted on the bed, and Alyosha sitting guiltily on the edge of it. Eventually, Pyotr spoke.

“You didn’t kiss me.” It wasn’t a complaint, merely an observation. Still, Alyosha turned slightly to glance at him, careful not to make eye contact.

“What?” he said.

“I noticed that you didn’t kiss me afterwards. You used to do that.”

It was just another drop of guilt in a whole ocean of it, but still he turned around and leaned over him. Irritated, Pyotr put his hand over Alyosha’s mouth.

“I don’t want your kisses anymore, Karamazov.”

“…‘anymore’?” Alyosha said, withdrawing.

“I can’t imagine you want to offer them to me, anyway.” Oh no. Alyosha knew that casual tone of voice.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Pyotr Stepanovitch?”

Pyotr sat up, stretching. “I haven’t been here very long, but even I know what you’re up to in that sanitarium.”

“Wh-wh-what do you mean, 'what I’m up to’?” Alyosha stammered. “I’m not up to-”

“That just confirms it,” Pyotr said, rolling his eyes. Alyosha mentally kicked himself for walking right into that. He had grown too used to plain, honest conversations where his secrets were well left alone, even if, even before, he had been too careless to realize how ensnared he was until it was far too late. “So it’s true then, about you and that patient.”

“That… how did you-” Alyosha clapped his hands over his mouth. He really was being too careless. I need to go now! he thought, jumping up and looking around for his clothes.

“Oh, don’t worry, Alexey Fyodorovitch,” Pyotr said, smirking, “word around town - for now - is just that you two are very close. But I know you, and I know you can’t resist that sort of temptation for long.”

“Resist that sort of temptation?” Alyosha said, fastening his pants, “I don’t know what you mean, Verkhovensky.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

Alyosha stared at him for a minute, then purposefully looked away.

“You always pitied me.”

Pyotr’s declaration hung heavy in the still air. Alyosha, stooped over to retrieve his shirt, stood frozen. Even his breath seemed to carry no motion.

He turned around. “It was more than pity, Pyotr Stepanovitch,” the words tumbled out of his mouth, “I did… care for you.”

“Liar,” Pyotr said through bared teeth. Alyosha wasn’t sure if he was right or not. “You and that patient, then, Karamazov - is that pity, too?”

“No,” Alyosha said emphatically.

“Then you care for him more than you cared for me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Pyotr laid back, resting his head on his arms. “You didn’t need to.”

Slowly, Alyosha buttoned up his shirt. He knew he should have just ignored Pyotr and hurried back into his clothes and out the door and far away, but he felt almost as though his body was refusing to listen to him and he was trapped here, stuck fast for his overwhelming contrition.

“It’s funny, though,” Pyotr was saying, “you think you love this man so much, yet I doubt you’ve ever fucked him. Have you, Alexey Fyodorovitch?”

Alyosha licked his dry lips nervously. “He’s such an innocent creature,” he said falteringly.

Pyotr snorted. “You almost assassinated the Tsar and yet now you show such consideration to a prince?” Alyosha started, then looked at the floor shamefully. “We both know how base and dishonest you really are, Karamazov. Why not just… take what you want?”

“What I want…” Alyosha mumbled, and shook his head. He turned back to look at Pyotr, finally looking him in the eye. “I can’t do that to him. I’m not like that.”

“You are,” Pyotr stated simply. It made Alyosha’s skin crawl to think that he was probably right. “You’re easily seduced by savagery - that was your real inheritance.”

Alyosha stood still for almost a minute before murmuring, “Yes.”

* * *

Alyosha returned to the sanitarium very late, feeling like a stranger in his own body. It hardly registered when the other staff asked him where he had been all afternoon and he wasn’t sure what kind of mumbled excuses he gave. He was half-certain they assumed him sick or on the verge of a mental breakdown (the latter was certainly true), so he was left alone and allowed to go straight to bed.

He couldn’t sleep. What Pyotr had said was tormenting him - no, not what Pyotr said. What he had prodded at and broken through: the internal dam that kept Alyosha from being swallowed by his own sins and darker nature. He had wallowed in his remorse for years now; now, he was losing the battle to not revel in it instead. Not to be like Stavrogin. But how else could he possibly survive this paralyzing guilt?

Feeling drawn and conflicted, Alyosha got up and headed silently to Myshkin’s room. It was well past midnight, very dark, and he should be asleep by now. Alyosha was hoping for that: Myshkin always looked so peaceful and vunerable when he was sleeping well. (Rather like Pyotr in that respect - Alyosha pushed the thought out of his mind.) Surely a look at that defenseless traquility would clear his head.

Surprisingly, Myshkin was still awake. True, he was lying down when Alyosha entered the room and quietly shut the door behind him, but he was staring contemplatively at the ceiling and sat up when he noticed Alyosha approaching.

“Alyosha,” he said warmly as Alyosha sat on the edge of the bed, “I was told you were ill.” He put his fingers to Alyosha’s forehead, frowned, and observed, “You are very pale…”

Alyosha shook his head, leaning away from Myshkin slightly. “I’m fine,” he said - lied - “I just, while I was out earlier, I just - ran into someone I knew.”

“Someone from back in Russia?”

“…yes.”

“Oh, that’s good news, then.”

Alyosha shook his head so earnestly that Myshkin pulled back a little. “He’s… the reason why I left Russia.”

“I thought you left because of your father’s murder…?”

Alyosha laughed wildly, and again Myshkin drew back a short distance. “That was years before I left, Lyev Nikolaevitch.”

“So why did you leave?” The question was posed so innocently that Alyosha almost wanted to laugh again. Instead, he impulsively grabbed Myshkin and pulled him closer.

“Do you really want to know?” Alyosha said in a harsh whisper. Myshkin looked at him with wide eyes, and nodded timidly. Alyosha took a breath - he could feel his fingers shaking around Myshkin’s wrists - and said, “About a year ago, I…” he balked.

“Yes?” Myshkin said in a small voice.

“…I am not - a good person,” Alyosha said unsteadily, “after my father died, I… ended up abandoning my older brother, who was dying of brain fever - I took my inheritance to St. Petersburg. I met…” he swallowed hard, “I met Verkhovensky there, and he convinced me, no, I decided to join him in his… in his revolution. But he was… terribly scarred, as he had previously been, well, he was awfully fragile, Lyev Nikolaevitch. His mental state, I mean. And I - I took advantage of him. Yes, in _that_ way - dozens, maybe hundreds of times, almost every night - _God,_ I lusted after him and it was so easy to satisfy it and it only ever made him worse and worse, to pretend I was his abuser, his dead abuser - oh, God, Lyev Nikolaevitch, I’m no better than Stavrogin. I never was - and we tried to assassinate the Tsar and I _couldn’t_ , I couldn’t do that, even if it would have - done something-? But still, I killed Verkhovensky. He lived, but I killed him. I shot him and left him for dead and up until today I was a murderer. I’m a murderer, Lyev Nikolaevitch, and a rapist - the lowest of the low - even today, I, I, Verkhovensky and I, we-”

He stopped suddenly, breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at Myshkin, who was wincing with tears beaded in his eyes.

“Alyosha, you’re hurting me,” he said plaintively.

Alyosha jerked his hands away from Myshkin’s wrists as though he had been burned. There were angry red marks in the shape of Alyosha’s fingers on his skin.

“Oh, God,” Alyosha gasped, “oh- Lyev Nikolaevitch,” he grabbed his hands again, infinitely more gently this time, and kissed them. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“…is it all true?” Myshkin whispered.

“I wish it weren’t.”

Myshkin looked at him for a stretch of time, gnawing on his lower lip. Then he leaned over and kissed Alyosha, in much the same manner that they had first kissed.

But Alyosha was still roiling inside, and he took this opportunity to pull Myshkin closer to him possessively, aggressively, deepening the kiss. Myshkin put up no resistance, even as Alyosha’s fingers moved from his hands to his waist, and one hand trailed down over his hip to fondle his thigh.

“Ahh… A-Alyosha,” Myshkin said when Alyosha finally relinquished his mouth, “what are you doing…?” His face was prettily flushed, with a mild, startled expression.

“Taking what I want,” Alyosha said under his breath. He directed his attention to Myshkin’s neck, which he kissed softly, trying not to think about how he’d strangled Pyotr only hours ago. Or was it a lifetime ago? Perhaps it had been just moments… He became aware of Myshkin threading his fingers through his hair. His hands were shaking; he made a small noise that Alyosha wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t felt the vibration through his lips on Myshkin’s throat.

Soon, Alyosha had 'persuaded’ Myshkin to lie back on the bed, where Alyosha crawled atop him and continued his gentle assault. _This is wrong_ , Alyosha thought, as Myshkin shivered uncomfortably under his touch, _this is wrong, wrong_ \- _wrong!_ But he ignored his conscience’s refrain, opting instead to slither one hand under Myshkin’s nightshirt. He flinched at the bare touch.

“Are you alright?” Alyosha asked.

“I, I don’t know,” Myshkin whimpered.

“Do you want me to stop?” Alyosha breathed in Myshkin’s ear, “All you have to do is say so and I’ll leave you be.” Even Alyosha couldn’t take his concern seriously, when he punctuated it with a quick suck on Myshkin’s earlobe.

“I - ah - I-”

“Does this feel good?” He ran feather-light touches up Myshkin’s torso. _Gentle, gentle_ , he thought distantly. Surely it would be better, or at least less worse, if he was sure to not hurt Myshkin, not even a little. But it was so tempting…!

“…it… it d-does,” Myshkin said, squirming, “I think… but-” Alyosha interrupted him with another kiss.

“Then let me do this,” he said softly.

Myshkin hesitated, his fingers tightening compulsively in Alyosha’s hair. “You won’t- it won’t hurt?” he said timidly.

“I’ll be gentle.”

Myshkin searched Alyosha’s eyes for a minute, biting his lip cutely, then slowly, uncertainly, nodded. His eyes widened and his breath hitched as Alyosha lifted his nightshirt. “Ahh, d… don’t…!”

Alyosha put a finger to his lips. “Lyev Nikolaevitch, if someone hears, I - would be in a lot of trouble.” Myshkin nodded again. Alyosha smiled at him, then sighed and pressed himself closer to him, burying his head in the crook of Myshkin’s shoulder. When the nervous trembling subsided a little, Alyosha finished undressing Myshkin, ignoring the stifled whines.

He was clearly very sensitive, very responsive: each touch of his naked, heated skin stunned him and almost overwhelmed him; Alyosha liked this. He liked the way Myshkin was all but paralyzed, except for desperate shudders, and how he seemed to be concentrating as well as he could on keeping quiet. “I love you,” Alyosha whispered in his ear, prompting a needy gasp with his hand, but that still didn’t make it right.

He drew back a little, looking over Myshkin. It was almost strange to him, after Pyotr - the smooth, unblemished skin was a stark contrast from the myriad scars. In fact, it was horribly inticing, the idea that came to him through the haze of his churning mind: his skin was like a blank canvas, ready to be marked with a hideous disfigurement, so that no matter what happened - no matter what else Myshkin forgot - he could never, ever forget Alyosha. Was this what Stavrogin felt like? Had these very thoughts, very feelings, these very urges gone through his mind? Surely Pyotr’s skin had been like this once, too, just like this, sickly pale skin faintly pink and without a single scar. Alyosha’s hands looked alien against it; he was nauseated to think about blood trickling over it, but still, somehow, he was desperate to see it.

Alyosha sat up suddenly - he was still between Myshkin’s legs, of course, but his hands were off him now, instead covering his own face in attempt to stop the agonized cry that tore at his throat. Myshkin, still panting, half-sat up in alarm. “Alyosha? What’s wrong?”

It took Alyosha a moment to lower his hands, to dare to look at Myshkin again. “…” It was so hard to think clearly; everything was a jumble of _Why am I doing this?_ and _I shouldn’t be doing this!_ and _I want to do this, I need to do this_. “…L-Lyev Nikolaevitch, I…” He should have left. He should have left a long time ago, before breaking Myshkin’s heart became a neccesity to do so.

“What’s wrong?” Myshkin asked again, sitting up fully and softly touching Alyosha’s face. The concern he displayed felt like a punch in the gut to Alyosha.

“…n-nothing,” Alyosha said through clenched teeth. He smiled at Myshkin again, but he knew it was twisted and shaky. “I’m fine.” It was bad enough that he was doing this; he couldn’t possibly tell Myshkin what was going through his mind. What that voice that sounded, he imagined, like Stavrogin whispered in his ear, and no one else could hear it.

“But you don’t look fine,” Myshkin said, tilting his head slightly. Instead of answering, Alyosha gingerly kissed his lips, caressing Myshkin’s waist as he did so. Myshkin’s whole body stiffened at that.

“Don’t worry about me,” Alyosha mumured, then kissed him again. “It’s my job to worry about you.” But right now it was hard to do that, since he felt as though he were being pulled in two very different directions by his mind (or rather the morals he still clung to with bitter desolation) and his body. It wouldn’t do to stop now, he rationalized dimly, lest they both suffer the pain of frustration. How would Myshkin handle that, anyway? He was so painfully new to this that just the state of arousal was bewildering for him. No, Alyosha had to finish what he started. “May I?” he whispered, gently pushing Myshkin back onto the sheets.

“Um,” Myshkin said, looking to the side evasively, then letting out a moan when Alyosha dragged his hands over his body. Once again, he put up no resistance.

After this point, it didn’t take very long for Alyosha to bring Myshkin to the point where he was crying out and lifting his hips shakily, almost incoherent. Normally Alyosha would be fine with the noise, but fearing that it might wake someone up, he clamped his hand over Myshkin’s mouth. His breath was hot and heavy on his palm. A visceral reaction, true, but still…!

“Ah- Alyosha, this is… w-weird,” Myshkin panted, voice muffled.

“…good weird or bad weird?” He only got a whimper and a tightening of the arms desperately wrapped around his shoulders in response. Right after that, Myshkin climaxed, his back arching violently. Alyosha could only stare as he collapsed helplessly back on the bed again. He sat up. “That was… fast.” _And I barely touched him, too_.

“What?” Myshkin said blearily, still trembling, “what was…?”

“I’m not done with you,” Alyosha said in a low voice (while part of him wondered why the hell he would keep at this), leaning over him again and pressing his mouth to his neck, then moving down his torso to lick away the semen. Myshkin flinched away from him as he did so, inhaling painfully through gritted teeth. He was in that oversensitive state where every last bit of skin felt raw, the nerves felt exposed, and even the slightest touch felt like torture and left a burning sting in its wake.

“Alyosha,” Myshkin said in a breathy whine, “Alyosha, I feel ill…”

“Ill, Lyev Nikolaevitch?”

“Yes, everything’s too, ngh - too… intense.”

“You’ll be fine,” Alyosha said, kissing him. “I love you.” _Please_ , please say it back, please say it back, he needed validation; he needed to know he wasn’t doing something truly loathsome-!

“I… I love you t-too, ah, Alyosha,” Myshkin said, squirming away from his touch. It somehow made Alyosha feel even worse. If that was possible.

“…just rest a minute,” Alyosha half-sighed, withdrawing to undress. A minute was apparently too long, though, because by the time Alyosha straddled Myshkin again, the latter had already started dozing off gratefully. Fortunately (for Alyosha, anyway), only a quick grope was needed for him to wake back up with a short whine.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded quietly, brokenly, and wet his fingers with saliva as Myshkin just stared at him, confused and exhausted. Alyosha had to deliberately remind himself to push only one finger into Myshkin, at first at least- the chances of him _not_ being a virgin were laughably small-

Myshkin let out a wheezing, pained scream as his body twisted under Alyosha’s. “It, it burns, Alyosha, please, it hurts,” he stammered, his grip on Alyosha’s bicep tightening, vice-like.

“You need to relax, Lyev Nikolaevitch,” Alyosha said softly. He kissed his face, his chest tightening as he noticed Myshkin’s tears. “It’ll feel good if you just trust me and relax.” Myshkin just whimpered, shaking. “Please, Lyev Nikolaevitch, I don’t want to hurt you.”

To his credit, Myshkin did manage to relax a little, settling uneasily back into the bed, although he did inhale sharply every time Alyosha made the slightest movement. He had a hurt, dazed expression on his face no matter how much Alyosha kissed it. He wondered vaguely why he didn’t just ask Alyosha to stop - truthfully, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what he wanted. And he had to admit that it had felt good, what Alyosha had done earlier, even if at the same time it was agonizingly uncomfortable; Myshkin had a pervading sense that this was something very wrong, very bad, but he was sure that Alyosha wouldn’t… his confession before all this madness had begun notwithstanding.

He also wasn’t sure if Alyosha would stop now, even if he begged. Not that he was sure he entirely wanted him to stop, either. It was all very confusing.

Out of nowhere, Myshkin said unsteadily, eyes going wide, “A-Alyosha, I think I’m going to-…” Alyosha was irritated for a split second before he realized what Myshkin actually meant, and just barely managed to cover his mouth with his free hand before that terrible, indescribable scream.

As a matter of occupation, Alyosha knew exactly what to do in the event of a seizure (and had semi-frequent opportunity to put this knowlege to good use), but at the moment all he could do was stare in stupefaction at Myshkin’s convulsing. He was naked, for God’s sake, both of them were naked - oh God, what was Alyosha _doing?!_ He jerked back, cursing panickedly, and prompty lost his balance and fell off the bed. The pain of hitting the floor in such an awkward position was vastly outweighed by the numb fear that someone had heard and would walk in on this… interesting scene. Belatedly, Alyosha realized that Myshkin had bitten him right at the start of the fit; the blood ran freely down his arm and the wound on his palm looked very bad. _I wonder how I’ll explain that one_ , Alyosha thought distantly. For some reason Ilyusha came to mind.

By the time Alyosha got up, cradling his injured hand to his chest, Myshkin’s fit had passed and he was now lying unconcious and pale. Alyosha stared at him for a minute, reflecting dimly on how thouroughly his erection had been killed, before guiltily pulling a blanket over Myshkin and kissing him on the forehead. He wondered if it wouldn’t be better if he left Myshkin to think that tonight had been a very vivid and very strange (and maybe even very frightening) dream.

Alyosha got dressed slowly, as silently as possible, and was about to head out the door when he realized he should re-dress Myshkin, too. And although he tried to do it as gingerly as possible (despite the difficulties that naturally arise when trying to put clothes on - using only one hand - on a limp, sleeping man who was also taller than him), Myshkin woke up anyway. He looked at Alyosha confusedly for a minute, then around the room, then at Alyosha’s hand, still grasping the material of his nightshirt, then back to Alyosha’s face. “What…?” he said faintly.

“I’m sorry,” Alyosha blurted out. Myshkin just stared at him, and Alyosha grimaced; he was completely out of it. There was no point to apologizing. “…just go back to sleep,” he said at length, his mouth feeling very dry.

Myshkin nodded drowsily and closed his eyes. It was another few minutes before Alyosha could tear his eyes away from him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered to the dark room, “forgive me.”

Still mumbling to himself, and only allowing himself to caress Myshkin’s cheek one last time - without even looking at him - he got up and left the room, closing the door behind him noiselessly. He only made it a few steps down the hallway before he doubled over, clutching the wall for support, and dry-heaved violently. But it went no further than that; it seemed that he had no hope, none whatsoever, of ever removing this foulness that inhabited his body, his mind, his blood.

Shoulders shaking and tears stinging his eyes, he looked up. Down the hallway, just further, was the room where he’d been staying ever since he first came here. In this room, there was a bit of money that he had saved up - not just a bit of money, in fact, more than enough to get him far, far away, maybe even enough to get him to America - and the plan had been to leave as soon as he could afford a train ticket…

So now he had a choice, Alyosha realized, looking at the still-bleeding bitemark on his palm. He could leave, like he should have done a long time ago. That was the rational thing to do: if Pyotr could find him here, then who else could? And even if Myshkin still wanted him around after what had transpired twenty minutes ago, Alyosha had already demonstrated to himself that he could not be trusted around him. But God, how he wanted to stay here. He’d never touch Myshkin again if it only meant he could stay here. True, the guilt might kill him eventually, but that was going to be true no matter where he was; he just couldn’t stand the crawling, suffocating terror that came with imagining Myshkin being alone again. He couldn’t… he couldn’t do that to him.

_So that’s it_ , Alyosha thought deadendly, _do I stay or do I go? Either way I’ve ruined everything_. With his bloody hand he opened the door to his cold room. He stood in the doorway, staring blankly ahead, for almost a minute before his eyes fell on the thing on the bed. The thing sitting on top of his blanket, that he somehow wasn’t sure wasn’t there before: a length of rope, neatly tied into a noose. He picked it up mechanically.

In the end, wasn’t this what Stavrogin had done? 

**Author's Note:**

> any and all comments will be forewarded to aireyv! i will either copy/paste their reply to me or they will reply on their own account! have a nice day!!! if you have any questions, just ask!!!!


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